


Clockwork

by moriamithril



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Poor Tony, Reluctant Roommates to Lovers, Smut, The Only Billionaire I'll Tolerate, accidentally falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:00:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25864012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriamithril/pseuds/moriamithril
Summary: Tony's tired. And sort of grateful his PR team is cleaning up his messes again, hiring a journalist to write a piece on the Man Behind Iron Man. A few weeks at his lake house should go by pretty uneventfully, right?In an AU where Tony survives the Snap (leaves Pepper, no kids), and thinks that maybe he shouldn't have.
Relationships: Tony Stark/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 105





	1. Chapter 1

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Happy muttered, his knuckles gripping the steering wheel from the front seat. **  
**

Rain drummed on the windshield rhythmically, and this time, Tony was enjoying it. Rain typically made him feel stagnant; pinned down to the restrictions of four walls and a roof, stuck. It wasn’t in Tony Stark’s nature to curl up and take advantage. In this instance, the rain was a melancholy metaphor for his own figurative drowning. How very fucking _poetic_. 

“No, no, no, don’t do that, don’t _say_ that,” Tony stammered quickly, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Happy was orchestrating this conversation, knowing his friend would turn it around. 

He’d play along, and besides, it was all very _fitting_. The rain, the absence of the typical New York traffic that allowed the town car to roll past guard rails and poorly-pruned white pines swallowed by bittersweet and kudzu, the apologetic friend. Happy didn’t expect Tony to break down, to beg him to turn the car around, to divulge about why Pepper had been in Los Angeles alone for two months; no, he just felt uncomfortable. Tony had very few witty remarks about the entire situation they were presently driving through, no facetious observations about the audacity of it all. Happy was very apparently suffering from social anxiety, despite the steady rain that, Tony had to admit, seemed to lull his very unsettled mind, seemed to beg his joints and muscles to break from their default state of tense and sink against the leather seats. 

“This will be fine, this will be _good_ ,” Tony corrected, running stiff hands through his rather disheveled hair, very aware of how he definitely sounded like he was telling himself that just as much as he was Happy. “Besides, I was way overdue for a public meltdown.”

Meltdown - was that the right word? Was ripping a camera from the demon-like grip of paparazzi and throwing it against a stone wall, shouting profanities and slinging curses, considered a meltdown? At the time, it had felt like an appropriate reaction to be harassed about his own alleged celebrity breakup. His breath had been hot with stale bourbon and eyes nestled behind two tinted glasses like pale, wild moons in the foreground of darkness, hiding behind slow-moving clouds, a red ring illuminated around the milky orbs that promised a coming storm. 

The rain was pelting now, and Tony was reluctantly reflective. Tony’s PR team had vowed to avoid any more storms, and insisted on a hiatus, a break from the disquiet of flashing cameras and tabloids and Tony’s own head. So, he’d head to the very remote lake house upstate, and come back refreshed. It was nothing a little peace and quiet couldn’t fix. 

Except, he wouldn’t be alone, which threw a wrench in the proverbial gear. 

“She’s supposed to be good,” Happy said, breaking Tony from his reverie. 

That piqued Tony, and he watched Happy involuntarily flinch before he could even open his mouth. 

“Oh, uh, good like, she’s a good _person_? Or good at being a journalist, which is synonymous with _leech_ ,” Tony asked bitterly. 

The tranquility the rain brought had passed, and Tony was pissed. Thunder rumbled from somewhere west of the highway, and he chuckled to himself. Thank god the woman wasn’t with them right now; that would have been too good not to mention. He turned his head towards the empty seat beside him, and he visualized her sitting there, watching him rage as the rain picked up, typing furiously with busy, nosy little thumbs against the blue glow of an outdated iPhone. “And the New York Times list is not an indicator of quality. Fucking _Twilight_ was a bestseller.”

Happy shrugged. “It’s just a few weeks. She’s got a good rep, too. Professional, all that.”

“So, what, like, the antithesis of me?” Tony snapped, folding his arms over his chest. His knees were bouncing now. 

“I just mean, I think she’ll stay out of your way. And she’s there to write something positive. You’re not under the gun,” Happy replied, and an indicator blinked and clicked as he checked his mirrors, moving with more trepidation than usual in the downpour. “And she won’t be up ‘til tomorrow evening; you’ll have some time to settle in.”

Oh, Tony had researched her, of course. The rather young protege that had been lucky enough to snag a gig with a bigger, liberal news source before turning thirty, making shoving her first novel towards the praise of critics and colleagues far easier than if she’d just emailed the rough copy out to publishers. Pure luck, Tony thought to himself. She was moderately good-looking, based on the press photos on Google, albeit a little different. Not his type. Maybe he’d turn on the charm if he got particularly bored, though fucking the subject of your latest work, your career-defining magnum opus, might not qualify as professional. What a facade. 

What a sham; inviting some up-and-coming kid to write about Tony’s feelings, his soul, insisting to the world in a bizarre attempt at comfort that Ironman was, despite the moniker, human after all. Allowed to grieve a relationship he ended with abuse towards vulture-like media, allowed to self-medicate after nearly dying how many times? After saving half the population? Her words would act as a balm on the heart of America, pardon Tony’s relapse into shitty behavior, and he could go home to good press and a less-crowded front entrance to the tower. 

“Oh, well, _that’s_ a relief,” he murmured, practicing his breathing technique some shrink had taught him years ago as he eased back into the seat. 

-

Josephine sat on her couch beside the front door of her apartment, idly scratching a bug bite on her ankle. One visit to the suburbs of Philly and she had earned a welt from an overly-friendly mosquito out at her parent’s place when she was visiting for Labor Day weekend. Josephine visualized the worn chain link fence in the backyard, the prevalent scent of charcoal burning and sparkler smoke, trying her best to distract from the smartphone that sat face down on the coffee table. The ringer was on, so if anyone was trying to get in touch, she’d know. It should be any moment now. 

Mr. Stark’s PR team had said they’d text a location - not an address - the day she was scheduled to leave for the upstate house. It took four weeks of background checks and contracts before it became official, but she knew it wouldn’t feel real until she started the car and headed north. 

They’d contacted Josephine and asked her to write the piece on Mr. Stark five and a half hours after cellphone footage was released of his attack on the paparazzi. She didn’t feel a particular empathy towards celebrities, usually, but remembered feeling his actions were slightly justified when she watched it. 

They wanted her to spend the month of September at his lake house with him - get to know him, witness him as a man, not Iron Man - and write the defining piece that would certainly help shift the lens on the famous billionaire into a more candid light. 

“Humanize him a bit,” someone on his team had said in the conference call. 

“A month seems like a long stretch,” Josephine revealed nervously. 

“People do it on political campaigns all the time,” another had said coaxingly. “And it’ll look authentic; spending that kind of time with someone. Intimate.”

Despite four years at the Post and success with the novel, Josephine felt unqualified. But they had wanted a fresh perspective, a millennial touch. 

“This doesn’t call for experience,” the head of the PR team had told her frankly. “This calls for heart.”

Because Tony Stark didn’t have a functional one; that seemed to be the joke. Josephine hadn’t laughed. 

The phone dinged, and Josephine leaped from place, fumbling for the device. An email from an online clothing company she’d bought something from once eight months ago with an end of summer deal flashed; locking the screen, Josephine tossed it roughly back onto the wooden surface, huffing impatiently. The wait was excruciating; what if Stark had shot the idea down? They’d warned her that he’d be witty at best, sarcastic and rancorous by default about the whole thing. Because, it’s not like people actually told Tony Stark what to do. What if he’d done his own research about her, insisting they find someone older, someone with more books under their belt? The welt on her ankle burned with discomfort, and Josephine dug her nails into it so deeply, blood formed beneath their beds. 

The phone dinged again, and Josephine drew in a deep breath. She took her time teaching for it, raising the screen to her face. It was Mr. Stark’s assistant, the dropped pin location popped up in the notifications. It was precisely three o’clock in the afternoon. Josephine didn’t open the phone, she just stood, slipped the device into her purse, and reached for the two suitcases. 

-

Of course, it was in Lake Placid. 

The drive was five hours long, give or take forty minutes with traffic leaving the city. The dog days of summer were still very present there, but Josephine watched the temperature gauge drop by a few degrees the more north she drove as an audiobook played softly from the speakers, a novel written by a friend. That was the thing about being an established author with a shred of clout; she now had colleagues, and sharing work with one another came with the territory. This particular book was exciting to hear read aloud; Josephine had read the early stages of the draft, acting as an unofficial beta reader. 

She highly doubted, in that moment, that she’d let a soul read her piece on Stark before publishing it. Josephine hadn’t met the man, and yet something about sharing space with him for an entire month and writing about his being, the man beneath the mask and the very established persona, felt more sacred and personal than even her own words, her own imagination blossoming into a story. 

Josephine drove on, that new-car smell still potent as she engaged the clutch, downshifting as she started down a dirt road. It continued for what felt like several more miles without showing a single residence, and Josephine began to wonder if she’d gone the wrong way when, finally, a house appeared from within the hemlock trees. 

It was more modest than Josephine expected, judging by the front entrance. A sleek chalet with high post and beam ceilings peeked their way through a tall glass window in the front. 

Her stomach twisted with anxiety when a man appeared on the porch from behind the screen door, waving. 

Josephine emerged from the car, blushing fiercely from nerves, Tony Stark - the billionaire, the Avenger, Ironman - gave her a pseudo-frown. 

“Sorry, kid. No valet up here. No chance to experience the _entire_ Stark vibe,” he sighed dramatically. “I really hate to disappoint, but, uh, I think you’ll forgive me for this one, right?”

He descended the wooden steps, sauntering towards the car as Josephine stood at the trunk, too apprehensive to immediately go for the luggage. 

He held his hand out, offering it to Josephine. 

“Tony Stark,” he said plainly, clearly enjoying her poorly-hidden shock. “ _Very_ nice to meet you.” 

“Josephine Bayer,” Josephine replied, straightening herself to her full height, which did very little. 

“I know who you are,” he said softly. 

-

He’d taken Josephine ‘s hand with a firm hold. A business man’s handshake, through and through. 

“It’s no trouble, I can take these,” she’d begun to say as Josephine opened the trunk, Tony immediately reaching for the suitcases. 

“No, no, no, no, no,” he’d replied very quickly, waving both hands in front of him frantically before grasping each by the handle. “But, uh, be a doll and get that for me?” His eyes traveled up towards the hatchback, and Josephine smiled with embarrassment. 

“Of course,” she said, flushing. “Thank you.” 

“No, thank _you_ ,” he called back over his shoulder, already heading back up the porch. “Just make sure to put this in your piece; Tony Stark - a true American gentleman.”

Disappointment bloomed in Josephine ‘s chest; he was already making jabs about the piece, the entire purpose for being there. It was lighthearted, or at least he sounded unbothered, but she felt a strange guilt as she passed the threshold inside.

Josephine moved in a dreamlike state as he showed her to her room, up a set of stairs and over a bridge-like corridor that ran across the length of the lake house. He rattled off details pertaining to her own bathroom behind another door, something about privacy and getting settled, and stood expectantly, eyebrows high on his forehead.

“Dinner’s in fifteen,” he remarked, his hands diving into his pockets. “I hope you don’t mind steak.”

“I’m a vegetarian,” Josephine replied in a small voice, wincing apologetically as she dropped onto the downy bed. 

His smile was forced and exaggerated. “Of _course_ you are,” he said, and he shut the door behind him, leaving her in silence. 

She’d left New York City in black jeans and a button-up denim shirt; peering at her reflection in the floor-length mirror hanging on the wall of her room, she decided it was not worth changing for dinner. Tony Stark was, well, Tony Stark, and Josephine felt trying to mold herself to some billionaire status-standard was not worth her time. 

“Writers are just eccentric,” she mumbled to herself, feathering her hair with the pads of her fingertips. 

Smudged, thick glasses framed her face, and she noticed a small blemish on her chin. Taking in the four-star hotel vibes of the modern space she now found herself in, the view of the sunset on the lake from beyond the windows, she sighed in resignation.

“And trainwrecks; that’s fine, too.”

-

The house was minimalist, which suited Tony Stark. He was the centerpiece, the clutter. Anything more would have been too much. 

“You cook?” Josephine asked, sliding into the barstool at the glossy granite countertop. 

A plate of grilled vegetables and rice sat in front of her, and Tony seemed to be sorting through a drawer at his hip, likely searching for a bottle opener; the bottle of merlot between the plates left a clue. 

“I am rich, I don’t cook,” he muttered, making a projected ‘ah-ha!’ when his hand appeared, brandishing a corkscrew. “And by rich, I mean utterly helpless in a kitchen. I’ve got a chef - he’s great - he comes a few nights a week, makes sure I’m not wasting away.”

Josephine watched as he worked, looking slightly more harassed than he appeared in most tabloid pictures she’d seen of him. Stubble peppered his face, the hair surrounding his lips and chin slightly longer, and he seemed…ordinary this close up. He wore a plain yet likely expensive blue sweater - thin, real wool, she thought. Italian import. The kind that doesn’t itch if you don’t wear an undershirt, though Josephine did make out the hem of a dark tee peeking from his chest. His slacks looked simple, but they were probably worth more than the cost of her utility bills for the entire month, at least before the book had sold. 

“Do you drink?” he asked, positioning the open bottle in front of a wine glass, poised to pour but stopping in midair. 

“ _You_ do? Now?” Josephine replied back, giving him a suspicious look.

“Cutting right to the chase, huh?” He poured the glass conservatively and slid it towards her. “Yes, I drink. Yes, I am capable of moderation. And no, let’s not highlight sobriety. I’d rather spare the media more of that bullshit.”

“Copy that,” she mumbled, shrugging. “I don’t know,” she took the glass, bringing it in front of her chin but not even daring to touch it to her lips, only using it as a prop to hide behind, “I’m here to get to know you.”

“So, like, these are my monkeys, this is my circus, right? Do I have a say in the program?” 

Josephine watched as he poured himself a glass, an even smaller amount than her own, and she wondered if he did it on purpose. He sat across from her at the breakfast bar, unfolding a napkin and placing it on his lap.

“You can tell me whatever you want. Technically,” Josephine told him, rocking back and forth in the seat to get comfortable, “I don’t have to ask questions at all; this isn’t an interview, it’s an editorial. I’m supposed to _observe_.” 

Tony took a few bites of his meal, a sip of wine, and placed his fork down on the plate, running his tongue over his teeth behind closed lips. Folding his hands in front of him, elbows on the counter, he looked at her. 

It was a scrutinizing gaze, and Josephine tensed, squirming slightly beneath it. 

What stood out to Josephine the most about Tony Stark were his eyes. They were deep and nearly bulging, wide with a hint of mania to them; Josephine thought of all-nighters, cramming or cleaning, reading a book so enthralling you couldn’t just dog-ear the page and sleep before the next chapter. But there was obvious focus behind them, and that trait stood out as he cocked his head, looking at her. 

“I’ve been observed for fucking years, kid,” he stated. “This will not be my first rodeo. I read your book -“

“You read my book?” Josephine repeated incredulously.

“I finished it around,” he looked at the ceiling, as if searching for the answer in the wooden beams, making a clicking sound with his tongue, “two o’clock in the morning? _Riveting_.”

Josephine’s cheeks pricked with heat so quickly, she felt the blood pounding in her head. 

“So, you read, then?” she quipped.

“Really cute,” he retorted through a small bite of his steak. “Your book was a fucking _bummer_ , if we’re being frank,” he told her bluntly. “Which, I mean, if the shoe fits.” His eyes darted downwards, taking in Josephine’s apparel. “Is, uh, is that what you had in mind for me? ‘Cus I really don’t want to look like any more of a sad sack than I already do, kid.” He took another sip of wine almost spitefully.

“A bummer?” she repeated back defensively, her fork abandoned beside her plate. “It was meant to be poignant.”

“Listen, kid - “

“It’s Josephine.”

“Alright, Jo -”

“Josephine,” she enunciated, and Josephine’s world suddenly felt very surreal as she sat before a well-prepared meal - not some Trader Joe’s cereal with oat milk and seltzer on the coffee table in front of Rick and Morty reruns sorry excuse for nourishment - exchanging discourse with America’s most famous billionaire. 

“Josephine,” he murmured back, and she watched as his tongue parted his lips for a brief moment. “If you expect some armchair sessions, some, I don’t know, Kumbaya bullshit, you’re going to be very disappointed. I have nothing to hide; I broke up with a serious girlfriend, I got drunk and broke a camera, and now I am very fucking tired. Happy for the company, don’t get me wrong,” he added sardonically, his voice ticking up on the end as he paused to drain his wine glass. 

“Make yourself at home. Just, you know, let’s be realistic here.”

“My book was from me,” Josephine reminded him, pointing at her chest and smiling politely, and she pressed her plate away from her gingerly. “Anything I write after this will be from you. Act naturally,” she said, “and if you don’t want sad, don’t be sad.”

Tony rolled his eyes, sighing to himself. 

“Expert advice,” he gibed. “New York Times best fucking seller.”

A weight of despondency sunk in Josephine’s belly. It’s only the first night, she reminded herself. He’ll be witty at best. She felt very small beneath the suspended light fixtures, pouring soft, yellow illumination, beneath the pitched ceiling ricocheting Tony’s piercing words. 

“I think, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go to bed,” she told him. “Let’s start again tomorrow.”

Tony released a breath from o-shaped lips, looking somewhere towards the entrance of the house, the lake shimmering in the moonlight beyond his shoulder. 

“Leave your plate - I’ll take care of it,” he said, clearing his throat.

Josephine muttered a word of thanks, and slid from the high stool, retreating back towards the staircase. 

-

This, for Tony, was all very _inconvenient_. 

He almost felt a bit disturbed at how easy it was; to be dropped off, no FRIDAY, no laptops, no strong cell service - sure, he could stand on the edge of the dock and check emails, make a brief phone call, hell, he could even activate FRIDAY if he wanted to. But he didn’t. Tony anticipated nervous ticks and phantom vibrations in his pockets, muscle memories reaching for devices. But no, Tony nearly deflated by the time Happy’s tires crunched beneath the gravel, pulling back out of the driveway and leaving Tony in peace. Or whatever semblance of that he was attempting to conjure. 

Enjoy it while it lasts, he’d told himself the first night there. Tomorrow, the kid will be there, and who knows? Maybe her presence would trigger some need to plug in, to feel relevant or important. Maybe she’d talk incessantly, filling the empty void in Tony’s brain in the absence of technology and media. Maybe she’d be too timid, too mousy to press him for anything, and he’d get bored, anxious. God, Tony hoped it wouldn’t be the latter; when Tony gets bored, he drinks, he talks way too fucking much; she’d have a trove of material by their third night. 

She was better-looking in person. Photos captured her mouth, her lips - a trait she was generously blessed with, he admitted - in awkward quirks, not really accentuating their potential. She had a funny crooked tooth that always seemed to be in the foreground of photos, too, always caught mid-sentence, hands gesticulating in front of her like she molded her thoughts into invisible sculptures. Real life, the three-dimensional figure she truly was, complimented her. She looked soft and Tony was still kind of a fucking dog, or a bit on the rebound, maybe. Truth was, he couldn’t touch another woman after Pepper left, after he pushed her out the door, even though he wanted to. His pants felt too tight, he fucking ached for some sort of relief, but his mind wouldn’t grant it. Maybe he was just pent up. Maybe it was the promise of congress that was meant to occur, Josephine’s entire reason for existing in his space. Tony hardly knew intimacy beyond physical feeling; it seemed to be either reluctant friendships or getting his cock wet. 

But, of fucking course, he had managed to be a dick during their first dinner. And any weird attraction was loneliness - another piece of invaluable, painfully obvious information from a therapist - and he easily shrugged it off. 

A strange wave of possession crashed into Tony, and he felt himself tense as he watched the glassy lake. Whatever you wanted to call his mind, his persona, whatever resided in his brain, whatever atlas that existed and mapped out his idiosyncrasies or feelings, or _whatever, whatever, whatever,_ belonged to him. Christ, he could barely read it himself. Tony could make anything, crossing wires and cracking codes, spilling out equations and piecing them together like poetry. All of that mushy bullshit that Pepper constantly tried to needle from him, even later, after she’d nailed him down, just pushed him deeper into his rabbit holes, the dark tunnels of inventions and bourbon and avoidant bullshit. 

But you can’t make intimacy, and you cannot force it. It doesn’t grow in Petri dishes, it can’t be genetically modified or printed or manipulated. So, he made a suit. Artificial intelligence. Artificial intimacy. 

Tony’s seen friends die and ripped from him, friends he didn’t even fucking want in the first place, but love is so permeable and instinctual that even the avoidant can’t really avoid it. The world left him bitter; even after everything he’d given it, it had still taken too much, too many, and everyone kept walking on eggshells around him, like he was a ticking time bomb. 

Tony was fucking tired, and sometimes he wished that the god damn snap of his weak finger would have done him in. Christ, he was tired. Everything that followed that simple marriage of friction with his middle finger and thumb should have allotted him some rest, some peace. Peace, he had begun to realize, was maybe a bit like happiness, or pleasure; it came in fleeting moments. Brief, quiet times that were gone as soon as you realized they were there. Tony didn’t want to feel anything anymore. The suit was too heavy, and so was his weak heart. 

Being a charlatan of a human being was less exhausting than exhuming his dead friends, thinking about the last time he hugged his father, trying to make Pepper feel even remotely secure. Tony was an inventor, he made things, but at this point, he was a pretty decent actor. 

This poor kid - her book was good, he admitted to himself. It just made his stomach knot, made goosebumps prick his arms, made foreign lumps form in his throat. He didn’t want to be evoked. It made him uncomfortable. He’d deliver something artificial, too. He was charming as sin, he fucking knew it, and maybe she’d think she was getting something authentic. It would certainly sound that way, he was sure of it. His charisma coupled with her bleeding words; this would be good. His team made the right choice. 

Knowing that her piece would be made up of a charlatan, made up of whatever version of himself he’d feel like delivering to her, subconsciously or intentionally, made him feel a little forlorn. He immediately resented it, resented her for it, and scraped the food left on their plates into Tupperware even though he wouldn’t eat the leftovers, let the tap water run over the plates, left them there for tomorrow. 

Tony stayed up late, pretending to read from book lists on his iPad. He tried to jerk off, shutting his eyes tightly and conjuring images of curves and imaginary bodies. He still couldn’t come and it just made him angrier. He felt sort of broken, defunct, and he couldn’t just take a screwdriver to himself and tighten loose ends.

He woke up shaken, not remembering falling asleep, his large bed emptier than it had felt the night before. 

She was sitting in the dining room, awkward, so delightfully out of place. Hair still damp from a morning shower, she was holding a reusable water bottle between her legs. 

“Morning,” she squeaked, voice weak and cracking from sleep. Or lack of use. 

Tony noticed that little tooth poke out - could her folks not afford braces? It wasn’t that bad, added character, and he hadn’t decided if he liked it or not. A strange image flashed in his mind; he envisioned her biting into fruit, flesh, dragging over skin, maybe even his skin, and he shook his head. 

“Uh, good morning,” he effused, feeling caught off-guard and quickly trying to mask it, striding towards the breakfast bar. “You live in Brooklyn; you must drink coffee.”

Josephine hummed in appreciation, and Tony watched as she clutched the pale blue water bottle, littered with stickers, like it was some lifeline. 

It was easy enough to work the espresso machine; Tony maybe was helpless in the kitchen, but this was a gadget he was well-acquainted with. 

“Seems like you’ve got me figured out,” Josephine noted with a sigh, rising to join him in the kitchen. Tony could tell she was making an attempt to be casual and failing miserably. “Now, I have to figure out you.” 

God, it was sort of miserable, watching her try to be comfortable. The espresso machine spurted and steamed, the smell, the promise of a teeth-grinding high, made him feel a bit more at ease. Tony hadn’t had much of an appetite, and had very little to look forward to. He filled two identical cups with the thick liquid, and when she took it, cupping her fingers together to grasp the rim, he touched her. 

“What do you want to do today?” she asked simply, hiding her mouth behind the cup. She obscured her mouth a lot, Tony noticed. Maybe she didn’t like the tooth. It irritated him, that she would bother trying to conceal it. It irritated him more that he was thinking about it at all. 

“Well, I’m here to not do anything, actually,” he said, eyebrows threatening to disappear into his hairline. “Why, are you an itinerary kind of gal?”

“No, no,” she replied, holding a hand in front of herself, her expressive lips curling into a mock-apology. “I’m a writer, remember? We don’t have schedules.”

“Maybe that’s why this whole celebrity-turned-superhero thing isn’t working out,” Tony pondered, his elbows resting on the counter top. “Inventors are probably more like writers than either of us are aware of.”

“So, you don’t sleep, is what you’re saying,” Josephine said solemnly, her eyes hooded. And Tony fucking laughed. 

It wasn’t a fake, polite laugh. It wasn’t really a belly laugh, either. It was this strange, comfortable rumble from his abdomen, rippling through his chest and bubbling from his throat and out past his lips. Simple, really. 

“No, but I was hoping to maybe go from the average four hour night to a healthy six up here,” he explained with humor, shrugging. 

“Wow, you are ambitious. I meant, if I wasn’t here, let’s say. What would you be doing?”

_Trying to jerk off unsuccessfully. Sleeping. Trying not to drink too much. Trying to jerk off again. Contemplating throwing my phone in the lake. Keeping the blinds shut so that the lake association wouldn’t ask why I threw my phone in the lake._

“Uh, probably nothing, if we’re being completely honest, here,” he remarked thoughtfully, trying once again to ignore that fucking tooth as she smiled at him, this time with her coffee cup held in front of her chin as she leaned onto the counter. 

She straightened at this, as if Tony had just uttered something brilliant. Tony often did utter or mutter or yell or curse something very brilliant, but hadn’t been trying very hard with the last eight or nine words that had just left his mouth. 

“Can we do that?” she whispered conspiratorially. “Can we just, like, not do anything?”

“Uh, yeah. Why? Need a vacation?”

She sighed heavily, taking another sip of coffee. Tony took a sip, too, watching for whichever way her lips would twitch next. 

“Since the book? Yeah,” she said grumpily. “I’m sure you can imagine. I’m not, you know, used to it yet. And on top of the Post; ugh. But!” she exclaimed loudly, clearing her throat. She was so awkward, Tony thought. What a shame. “This is a business trip, not a vacation. Whatever you want to do is up to you.” 

_Think about dead friends. Try not to drink. Tinker with something, anything, to keep my hands busy. Try to jerk off. Try not to cry like an actual baby._

Some sort of pressure valve was released inside of Tony’s chest, and he inhaled deeply, cocking his head at the strange girl, woman, whatever, standing in front of him. 

It’s been a long time since Tony did nothing at all. 

“That sounds, uh, that sounds good. Let’s do that.”

“Nothing?” Josephine questioned back in disbelief, eyes wide. 

“Nothing at all.”

Tony might as well be a magnifying glass, considering how on the spot Josephine felt.

It was the first morning at the elusive, exclusive Stark lake house and the lack of Important Things to Do was both overwhelmingly liberating and nerve-wracking.

On the first morning, Tony waved towards the fridge and a row of cabinets.

“There’s food somewhere, I don’t know,” he muttered. “What’s mine is yours, et cetera.”

Josephine watched as he took their empty coffee cups and abandoned them in the sink. Her body tensed with so much discomfort, she nearly audibly groaned. Maybe it was easy for someone like Tony Stark to make himself at home in a scenario like this, but she was feeling more like a fish out of water by the second.

He’d dropped onto the enormous black leather couch, L-shaped and poised before a large screen tv. Languidly reaching for a remote, the click of a button prompted a news channel, and he immediately flipped it. An infomercial of middle aged women selling jewelry.

“What’s your poison?” he asked.

Josephine plopped down on the opposite side of the couch. She watched as he pulled out reading glasses from the small pocket of his sweater, his merino wool Italian import that cost as much as her closet of an apartment in Brooklyn. He was dressed in his clothes from yesterday, and she wondered if he slept. How he slept. She could smell him; it was the hint of aftershave - top shelf, French, she assumed, overpriced in a glass bottle crafted in such a way that you sincerely doubted he appreciated. Tony Stark looked like if he’d been walking on the other side of the street, he wouldn’t stand out at all. He jiggled his foot wildly as it crossed over his knee; Stark was fidgeting, and Josephine suspected it was not from nerves. Stark was a wind-up toy with a weak heart, and she thought of those old Energizer bunny commercials she remembered watching as a kid. It keeps going, and going. Doing nothing for Tony Stark might take effort.

“Adult cartoons, I don’t know; anything besides reality?” she said through a yawn, trying to make it look like she was comfortable.

Tony pressed another button or two; Adult Swim.

“Let’s be teenagers today,” he announced loudly, and he set both feet up proudly on the coffee table.

Josephine watched Tony sort of melt into the couch, the curtains drawn throughout the house to obscure light from pouring onto the television screen. For a fraction of a second, his eyes flashed towards her and he smiled, and he was still. No twitches, no jiggling of his foot or drumming of his fingers. Whatever laid beneath his sweater rose and fell again softly.

Tony was at ease, and despite the ringing feeling of imposter syndrome boiling over inside of her, she made a resolution to make herself the same.

And thus the first week slipped by.

Tony didn’t really do meals, he snacked. Every few hours he’d putter into the kitchen and return with bags of whatever, fruit, bottles of mineral water, and pile them onto the coffee table in front of them. This suited Jo; living alone didn’t warrant cooking. Sometimes it seemed like neither of them emerged from their rooms until after noon, both fully submerged in Tony’s suggestion to be teenagers.

As far as her piece went? She had nothing to even construct an opening paragraph with.

Her blank google doc stared back at her every couple of hours when she bothered prying open the screen to her laptop, which she began leaving plugged in at the table in the dining room, in sight of the couch.

“Don’t leave this part out,” Tony called from beneath a bag of Smartfood one afternoon. Maybe it was afternoon. “My affinity for the History Channel’s take on…what the fuck is this again?”

“It’s about rainforest ecosystems,” Josephine replied absentmindedly, still haunted by the blank, white page of her screen.

“Wait, this is specifically about frogs,” Tony corrected her through a mouthful of popcorn. “You haven’t been paying attention. I just watched a frog do nothing for about ten minutes.”

“Focus, Tony,” Josephine mumbled, and she closed one document and opened another. This time, the screen revealed a heavier word count. Her second very unfinished book.

“Oh, look at that. You’re absolutely fucking correct. Jesus Christ,” he swore, and Josephine watched as he swung his feet in front of him, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms. “What day is it?”

“It’s - “ Josephine narrowed her eyes, opening the calendar, “Tuesday, if that means anything.”

“Yeah, uh, cleaning crew. Grocery delivery, that’s today.”

Josephine groaned. “We should go, right? I don’t want to be in the way. Oh, my god,” she exclaimed, her face lighting up, abandoning any weird insecurity about enthusiasm - or her teeth. “Let’s hike!”

Tony’s eyes bulged out of his head. “Listen, kid, I have a, a thing,” his hand motioned in front of his chest, “and, I mean, I invented a device that overrides any sort of defaults, but, uh, let’s drive. Compromise? I have something in mind.”

Josephine was fine with compromise. The two of them needed fresh air and sunshine, and despite a growing comfort, she truly had nothing to work off of so far.

“Give me a minute to get ready,” she said, gingerly shutting the device before scurrying off towards the staircase. She was too focused on leaving the house for the first time in days to pay any mind to the sensation of excitement creeping into her.

-

Tony chose the Porsche. Sometimes, it’s better to blend in, he joked to himself. He didn’t really laugh.

She really had relaxed, he thought to himself as she tucked into the passenger seat. She turned to smile at him, not even making a snarky remark about the car. Days of lounging in front of garbage television in a vulnerable state of vegetation was all it took. After she sort of beamed at him, she pressed her lips together, flushing a little. Why the fuck did she hate the tooth so much? And why was he so obsessed with it?

She didn’t even look like she plucked her goddamn eyebrows. Maybe she didn’t. The idea of something so trivial and mundane kind of exhilarated Tony; everything in his general proximity was artificial; she was real. He felt a pang of disgust at his trail of thought; he’d seen bloodshed and bombs detonate and life leave lungs and this was his observation.

Christ, he hoped she was better at this than he was.

This spot, the one he had in mind, she’d like it. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just knew.

“So, whatcha got so far?” he goaded, elbowing Josephine’s forearm that draped over her half of the center console.

She smirked out of the corner of his eye.

“You can’t cook,” she said flatly, feigning an accusatory look. “And America deserves to know.”

“You are actively trying to ruin me,” he replied with mock-dryness. “What an actual menace.”

“But really, I don’t know,” she breathed, readjusting herself in the seat.

He felt his neck tick several times, wanting to watch her idly finger the strap of the seat belt by means to distract herself, but thought better of it. He watched the mirrored images of pine trees on either side of the road grow taller.

“C’mon,” he cajoled. They were outside, sort of. He wore sunglasses, the sunny yellow ones that hid how wild his eyes could get when he didn’t sleep enough. “We’re doing this, right?”

“You’re very charming,” she said coyly, her mouth twitching as she shrank into her seat. “But you know that.”

“Wow, uh, a little offended it took four days to realize,” he joked back. Was this flirting? Why did it feel like it? Was it her? Or was this just how he communicated?

“You’re also maybe a little neurotic,” she said slowly, grimacing in apology.

“Oh, okay, so we’re being direct now. Finally.”

“It’s not a bad thing!” Josephine said defensively, a pleading smile plastering over her. “You’re a genius, right? Doesn’t that come with the territory?”

“Yes, it would appear that it does, and thank you for that. You are forgiven,” he replied.

“No, but seriously,” she said, suddenly serious as she threw herself back against the headrest. “It’s probably good we’re getting away from the television. We should be talking more.”

“Right,” he agreed, nodding. “Let’s talk.”

She smiled again, and something weird fluttered in Tony’s chest. He tapped the arc reactor, disguising the movement by brushing imaginary lint from his shirt. Several minutes passed in oddly comfortable silence; in fact, Tony couldn’t remember the last time he felt so content. His mind flicking between the cursed contentment and suspicion and anxiety, and Josephine seemed perfectly stuck in the former state of some sort of equanimity, based on the expression Tony could make out in his peripheral.

“It’s beautiful here,” she finally murmured, piercing the quiet.

Tony looked ahead through the windshield; it was miserable outside. Muggy, humid, and he was just fine within the comforts of climate controlled houses and cars. It was sort of overcast, one of those days where you couldn’t tell what time it was. The mountains ahead were a little obscured by haze.

But Josephine was right. It really was beautiful, Tony just hadn’t had the mind to notice in recent years.

It was a week since Labor Day and a few before the leaf peepers would swarm this region like fruit flies on an overripe peach, so Tony hoped, on an ordinary Tuesday, the place he had in mind would be quiet.

He felt a bubble of pride swell in his chest when they arrived at an empty patch of dirt and gravel. He parked, and Josephine watched him carefully for cues as they wordlessly unbuckled themselves from their seats and stepped out into the heat.

Tony’s tee shirt was already beginning to cling to his back, and he pushed his shades up towards the bridge of his nose, his face slightly damp with sweat.

“Let’s do this, kid,” he prompted, stretching. God, he felt fucking ancient.

She made this face - it was this poorly-contained look of wonder. It wasn’t youthful or naive, it was alive. Like there was fire behind her eyes, and every strand of energy inside of her flared right in her irises, burning. Over a goddamn mountain overlook. Tony didn’t cringe over it, he felt envy.

She led the way, sort of bouncing as she ambled down the path through the fir trees, and he shoved his hands in his pockets and followed her.

“Oh, my god,” he heard her whisper.

He kept his eyes very well glued to his shoes as he shuffled towards her, not stopping until their shoulders were parallel. Then, with a disinclined motion of his head, he looked up.

How long had it been since Tony had been up here? He didn’t take Pepper, he realized. His mind reeled with appreciation and emptied at the same time, every muscle in his body loosening. It was vast, picturesque, otherworldly. Despite his journalist companion, who marveled silently beside him, it was quiet, and for the first time in two decades, so was his head.

“Well, I’m not quite sure _he_ deserves any recognition,” Tony scoffed, smiling at Josephine, “but yeah. Holy shit.”

WEEK TWO

“All right,” Josephine said carefully, and Tony smirked at the hint of authority in her voice. “So, the water is boiling, right?”

The open kitchen was filled with steam, and for the first time ever, Tony felt warmth inside of it. Like it was brimming with something he couldn’t name.

“You are loving this, aren’t you?” Tony replied, “you’re a fucking sadist. Yes, the water is _boiling_.”

“Okay, open the box, and pour in the pasta. Check the cooking time on the side before you toss it in the recycling.”

She stood on tiptoes as Tony gradually held the empty box higher, stirring the penne with his other hand.

“Nope, you do not have to double check my work this time,” he insisted firmly. “I know what it says, I’ll set a timer now -”

“That’s what you said last night,” Josephine said, and Tony laughed at her desperation. “If you want it al dente -”

“Which I do. Go sit down,” he told her, eyebrows high on his head. “It’s fucking pasta.”

Josephine huffed, and obeyed him, slipping into a bar stool on the opposite side of the kitchen island.

“And French toast is soggy bread - we went through two loaves for six slices - “

“You are a very harsh teacher,” Tony interrupted.

“No, I’m just a pasta enthusiast,” she said, laughing faintly.

“Yeah, no pressure here, or anything,” Tony joked back. He watched her as she propped her chin in her hands, watching him with a false-scrutiny.

Time was passing very calmly, slipping into congenial flow. Too comfortable, he sometimes thought cynically. Sometimes he thought of Rhodey, of FRIDAY, of Happy. He even missed the fucking kid; he’d check in with Peter sooner than later. But he didn’t think about the Snap, he hadn’t been dwelling on the fourteen million other worlds he might be in. He stopped thinking about the news. He felt a creeping sense of ease, and he fucking hated it. He hated it because he knew it wouldn’t last.

It never did.

-

“You are fired, do you know that?” Tony shot at Josephine’s back. Tony was active, obviously. Perfectly capable. It was just very fucking hot. Too hot to hike. “I’m calling PR as soon as we get service.”

“Yeah, I’d fire me, too,” she said, panting a bit.

She’d talked him into a hike, but he’d made her wait until later in the afternoon, when the sun would be mostly gone. It did very little, considering how severe the humidity was.

They were mostly silent once the incline kicked up, each working towards the same goal of finishing what they’d started in the barely-habitable conditions. Tony was pleased to realize that, instead of weakness, his heart felt more functional than it had in maybe years, beating against his chest as his legs burned beneath him.

When they nearly collapsed at the summit, Tony watched Josephone closely. Her face was soaked with sweat, a small gnat flattened and pressed to her forehead. She looked wild, Tony thought.

“Good job, Tony,” Josephine said with a pseudo-air of superiority.

He’d think of this later, he realized. Her face, satisfied and appreciative, he’d visualize it, maybe when he was falling asleep later. Or attempting to.

Tony concealed his hands at his sides, balled into fists. He fought another strange wave of want, letting the desire to touch her pass over him. He didn’t know how to be close to someone without irritation, or bitterness, or fucking. But he was trying.

-

Tony woke up late in the morning, the same way he did every morning. Usually fully clothed, on top of the blankets, unsure of how he fell asleep. As if, perhaps, he fucking vanished and reappeared at a reasonable hour every day.

Most of the time, he’d stare at his pitched ceiling, light barely penetrating thick, dark curtains, and he wondered about Josephine. Could she sleep at night? Did it take effort?

She was doing that, and Tony felt taken aback by it each time. Just popping into his head, flashes of smiles or her face set in concentration, watching him, or sitting behind her laptop.

Every time it happened, he pushed it away. He wasn’t very accustomed to setting thoughts like that aside; maybe it was attraction, likely it was loneliness. He told himself that often. Tony typically did things in a simple process: he wanted something, and then he’d get it.

Not this one, he said to himself. She doesn’t deserve to suffer the bullshit.

WEEK THREE

Tony finally rolled out of bed; the digital clock read 11:11. He remembered someone telling him it was an auspicious time.

One wish? he asked himself. If Tony could do anything, now, it would be to maybe, finally, come. Why the fuck couldn’t he shut his eyes, imagine someone, anyone, and pretend to be dead for approximately four seconds? A blank state of bliss as a result of harmless pleasure.

When he turned his shoulder on the threshold of the room, the clock still had double elevens.

“I take that back,” he whispered. “I want something else.”

He couldn’t speak the words out loud. He didn’t know exactly what he wanted; he stood, anxious, gripped with pressure by a fucking clock, and watched it flick to 11:12.

“Fuck you, too, then,” he muttered angrily.

-

“Fuck,” Josephine grumbled, staring at her laptop.

Tony was standing at a waist high table somewhere beyond the open concept living room, a holo table activated.

“I second that statement,” he affirmed, not looking up from his work.

It was just harmless tinkering. Back tracking. Call it an unhealthy obsession, call it grief. Sometimes he liked to pull up the Möbius strip of time and pull it apart and put it back together again, like it was an old microwave. Fourteen million possibilities, and in this one, he was breathing, heart sort of beating, hanging between shrapnel. And he was still very tired.

Tony was discovering that time felt relentless after manipulating it.

With a wave of his hand, the lateral screen that projected from the table disappeared, and Tony huffed out a breath, positioning his hands on his hips.

When he looked over at the dining table, Josephine wasn’t grinning up at him, instead draped over her laptop like a widow at a funeral hanging over the casket.

“Can we be specific about fucks? Which fuck are we talking about? Christ, you look like you’re in pain,” Tony remarked, walking away from the table and crossing the room into the kitchen.

“Oh, it’s just, you know,” Josephine muttered, shuttling the laptop with a firm hand.

“I know a lot, obviously,” Tony sings from the kitchen, lining up two glasses of wine. “But, again. Specifics.”

He was very aware of Josephine watching him intently as he poured them each more merlot; the first glasses either of them have had since her first dinner. Her smile was one of gratitude when he stalked over to the table, and she plucked one glass from his hand.

“Is it for the piece? Do we need to like, actually sit down and interview?” he implored.

“No,” she said firmly, taking a liberal sip. “I want it to be more organic than that.”

Tony smirked. “Is this writing, or grocery shopping? Look, I like you, I want to help -“

“There’s no pressure,” she assured him, and her expression was sort of grave, too serious. “This approach is just new for me.”

Tony gave her a half nod, half shrug. “Yeah, well, you’re already quite successful. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

He swirled his wineglass faintly, the sulfates and fermentation cast light from the fixtures above and it looked like a miniscule galaxy. Flashes of dark space, near death, waiting very impatiently for something to happen. How many times had Tony cheated it?

“Just lucky.”

He ceased his movements, lifted from the fog of near-disassociation as Josephine spoke.

“Uh, yeah,” he sniffed, tipping back into his chair. Josephine was unusually glum, and he was beginning to sort of panic. This was getting to be too much; too melancholy, too solemn, too real. “That’s what success is. That’s the secret. Opportunity, boot straps, all that jazz; that’s a little white American lie. That doesn’t mean you didn’t work for it. People actually like your book.”

“I don’t know,” she speculated, tracing her finger over the indented apple of her laptop. “I didn’t even study journalism, you know.”

“Wow,” Tony said with mock-outrage, “as someone who majored in fighting space aliens, you sound like a fraud.”

This earned him an earnest chuckle from her, and the sound rang inside of him. It wasn’t just a comfort, it was more than that - he wanted to hear her do that again. Tony got an overpowering desire to lean closer over the table, to maybe touch her arm, or make her laugh, but he reined it in. He waited.

“My grandfather wrote for the Inquirer in Philly,” she began, still not looking at him. “And I dropped out of art school after four semesters. The more borders surrounding art, the more I hate it,” she explained dryly. “I started writing the book as, I don’t know, an experiment.”

“A lot of good things come from experiments,” Tony said, forcing brightness in his tone.

“Yeah, well, a couple of his colleagues gave me cards at the funeral when I told them I was writing. I moved to New York six weeks later. Just, you know, riding coattails. That’s all this is.”

She spoke all of this like it was a confessional, like she was telling Tony a very dark secret.

“This is how most success stories begin,” Tony said reflectively, offering her a small smile. “Feeling guilty or having some tragic past doesn’t change anything. Fake it ‘til you make it, babe.”

“I’ve heard that before,” she said, and she sounded almost sad, regretful.

Tony was crawling in his own skin. Christ, did he want to hug her? Comfort her? Clearly, he said to himself. He wouldn’t, though. Her eyes watched as he swallowed.

“I just want to be the real thing,” she said wistfully. She brought her head up and she smiled at him.

What the hell does that feel like, he wondered, partially in awe, partially resentful. Angry. Envious.

He made a sound, a noncommittal chuckle. He had something witty on the tip of his tongue, he was sure of it, but the thought dissipated before he could speak, dying in his throat. Tony fucking Stark didn’t have anything to say.

“I like you, too,” she said, very quietly.

Tony opened his mouth to reply, and several thoughts catalogued inside the rolodex in his head. He looked at the lake; the day had been lost to another afternoon spent at their individual workspaces, exchanging smiles and sharing stale chips. The sun had disappeared behind the trees that lined the opposite side of the lake, and the world outside was a dream blue haze.

“We should swim,” he finally offered, like he was merely testing the way the words sounded, “if you want, obviously.”

And just like that, the fog lifted. Fine, Tony admitted to himself, and he flexed his jaw. She’s beautiful. She’s really fucking beautiful. Josephine smiled.

“I want to.”

-

They sat for a while, on the edge of the dock. That goddamn feeling of serenity washed over him again, but, as was becoming increasingly more common, it was accompanied by a rush.

This was not his typical anxiety or existential dread, it was excitement. Curiosity, tension, apprehension, the unknown. And the source of it sat so close, he felt the heat from her skin on her arms.

“This is a place I’m glad I got to see before I die,” she said faintly.

Tony felt the pressure valve release just enough to allow himself to chuckle. “What are you, eighty?”

“I don’t know,” she laughed defensively, “never saw myself in a situation like this. Just some loser from Philly.”

“Now, look at you,” Tony said. And he did; he let himself make eye contact. When she smiled, it was so goddamn pure and grateful and Tony’s stomach turned.

“You’ve probably seen so much,” she remarked. As idly and softly as a second thought. “I can’t even imagine the places you’ve been.”

Starving in space. Lost in an infinite abyss.

“I mean, not to say you haven’t been through some shit,” she added, clearly flustered, trapped in the assumption that she’d made a societal mistake. “I didn’t mean -“

“No, stop,” he muttered, and he leaned against her side, intentionally bumping against her. “I don’t know,” he said loudly through a sigh, “Sometimes, I think I should have died in that battle last year. I was supposed to. Haven’t felt right since.”

She looked so sorry, she even turned towards him, putting a hand on his arm. He thought he could choke on his heart as it sprang to his throat.

“Christ, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Tony,” she said firmly, and her mouth forming his name looked almost vulgar to him, and he hated himself for it. “This is off the record. This is just us.”

They were silent for a moment; Tony was very aware of how her hand felt as it fell away, her arm wrapping around her knees again.

“You know, death isn’t so literal. Sometimes it’s a new start, right? Maybe it’s just time for something new,” she told him. She was looking out on the water.

A wave of realization crashed into Tony, and for a second he felt like he was drowning and finally brought up for air.

“I don’t have a suit,” she confessed as she stood abruptly, in nothing but a black tank top and small shorts, poorly cut. Old leggings she butchered herself, Tony guessed.

“Solidarity,” Tony said, nodding down and looking at his own boxers. “Unless you’d prefer -”

“No, no,” she said quickly. “Solidarity helps.”

“All right. Now, ladies first. Let’s go, Bronte.”

Josephine whipped her head around, her mouth agape.

“I can’t go first,” she whined. “What if there’s, I don’t know, things in there.”

“Uh, there are a lot of things in there, kid. The trick is to not think about them.”

She winced, and outstretched her leg, bending slightly at the knee and testing the water. “It’s warm,” she noted, bargaining with herself. “I don’t know, though. I don’t want to get my clothes wet -“

“You have approximately forty seconds before I push you -“

“Okay, okay,” she said over him. “Wait. Close your eyes.”

Tony knew what she was doing; he closed them respectfully, making an effort to steady his breathing. His heart? There was nothing he could do about that, the incessant beating of it. How could she not hear it, too? Tony felt her undressing, the light drop of the fabric falling onto the deck, the sound of her skin shedding its protective layer that concealed the parts of herself Tony wouldn’t allow himself to think about.

“Keep them closed until you hear a splash,” she instructed once more, and after a small gasp of air and a swift movement, Tony heard her make contact with the lake.

His chest was bare; he didn’t always need reinforcements. A deep scar sat in the middle of it, and he stroked it as he begged his heart to slow itself. Josephine made a sound of triumph when she emerged from her leap into the water, and he smiled at her.

“Watch out, kid,” he warned, and for the first time in who knew, Tony jumped in behind her.

She beamed at him, in the crepuscular blue light. Tony focused his gaze very determinedly on her face, paying absolutely no mind to her bare chest.

Nope, he wasn’t going to fucking look. This girl, woman, whatever, was haunting him, he realized there.

“This feels amazing,” she said, and she smiled, and had the audacity to fucking press her lips together, turn away from his eyes, and look back again.

Tony watched her - she was flirting, and he knew it, and he gnashed his teeth together behind a closed mouth.

“Josephine,” he said. It was abrupt and sudden and she sobered a little, mouth partially parted, watching him, waiting for him to continue. “Your book. It was good. Really fucking good.”

Her smile was weak, crumpled, hit with emotion she hadn’t anticipated.

“I mean, I didn’t like it at first. I didn’t like the way it made me feel. Even though I did, in a weird way. I don’t know, I’m not making sense. You get it -“

“Thank you, Tony.”

They shared another long moment, just staring, getting comfortable with the silence of one another, water rippling around them. She outstretched her arms and swam a little towards his right, in direct contact with the beam of light streaming down from the side of the house. Her mostly nakedness was very apparent, and Tony looked away, almost annoyed.

Fuck, he was hard. Fuck, he hated this. Tony fucking hated himself as he contemplated making a sorry excuse to get out, to leave and retreat into his room.

“I swam competitively as a kid, you know,” she remarked, fully and entirely unaware of Tony’s deep discomfort and shame. “It’s been, like, twenty years, but I’m still pretty good.”

Tony allowed himself to watch her tread water, still focusing on her eyes, her mouth, that fucking tooth.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely, “prove it. Swim to the other side of the lake. See ya later.”

She threw her head back and laughed, her mouth open and her throat exposed, and Tony shut his eyes tightly.

“Hell, no!” she said. “If I can’t see the bottom, then I’m not -“

Her words broke off and grew into a shriek. Flailing, Josephine launched towards Tony, reaching for him.

“I felt something!” she cried, and Tony’s arms instinctively wrapped around her waist as she crashed into him.

She grasped Tony’s neck, pulled herself into him, and her legs, one of them, the left one, did this thing. It was a small movement; gentle, careful. Her calf, sliding up towards her thigh - part way up, if Tony had to guess - brushed Tony right between the legs, creating just enough friction against his involuntarily-erect cock, and Tony made a choking sound in his throat, releasing Josephine like she was on fire.

Her momentary panic was replaced by concern as he darted away, turning to face the deck and clutching his crotch.

“Oh, shit. Did I kick you?”

“No,” Tony assured her, shutting his eyes tightly as the star named Josephine inside of him exploded behind their lids. “Well, maybe, but I’m fine. Totally good.”

Josephine climbed into him, half naked, avoiding algae blooms or a stray trout, lightly brushing herself against him, and Tony, with all of the subtle grace of a prepubescent boy, came. Right in his fucking boxers, treading water in a lake.


	2. Chapter 2

After a rather deep inhale, Tony allowed his body to sink into the lake, temporarily wondering if he should or should not resurface. 

Eventually, he chose the former. 

“I kicked you,” Josephine said flatly, grimacing beneath the faint light of the porch once he reappeared, shaking water from his head. “Tony, I’m so sorry -“

“Uh, I am totally fine,” he began, “seriously. Do you want to get out? Let’s get out. I’ll grab towels.”

 _It’s fine,_ he repeated in his head, mechanically grabbing hold of the railings and pulling himself up onto the dock. I’m just absolutely ruined for this girl, no big. It’s nothing. What was that Sabbath lyric? ‘Love has given life to you and now it's your concern.’ _Your_ concern. This is my problem, no one else’s. These sorts of situations can be mitigated. This is nothing a little bit of walling up and self-isolation can’t fix. 

Idly he walked to the pool house; he hadn’t opened it in forever, and reached for towels. When he closed the door behind him, Josephine was standing on the dock, facing away from him. Her arms were wrapped around herself, clutching her half-nakedness. 

“Here,” he said, and he felt _betrayed_ by himself when she turned, smiled, her face dewy and dreamy. 

She turned her body away but kept her eyes on Tony, letting him, wordlessly asking him to drape the robe over her. 

“I’m not ready to go to sleep yet,” she told him, taking the towel and drying her hair with it. “Wanna watch a movie?”

“Brilliant plan,” he replied stiffly, pulling his shirt over him. “I’ll, uh, go get dressed.”

“Yeah, if you want,” Josephine said, shrugging. This time, she didn’t meet Tony’s stare, and she stood beside him expectantly, waiting for him to usher her back inside. 

Yup, Tony thought, and he didn’t keep her waiting, instead reminding himself to put one foot in front of the other. Totally destroyed. 

Towel wrapped around his middle, soaked boxers beneath. Screw it. 

The bright glow of the television was the only source of true light, and Tony mindlessly put something on - Tony had been here enough times to know exactly how things were going. Except he forgot all of his lines this time. There was no finesse, no game plan. What about this girl made him forget himself?

She didn’t sit on the other side of the sofa - in fact, she was very close, _too_ close. It occurred to Tony that the appalling occurrence in the lake did very little, as far as release went. That was a sad joke, a nod towards his broken self in every aspect. But he couldn’t actually fuck her. 

Why? Because she would regret it. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even a month from now. But, somewhere down the line, Josephine would have words to describe the feeling of the ghost of his lips on her skin, how unprofessional his sheer presence made her feel. How he’d defiled her with his playboy _bullshit_. Tony left emotional ruin in his wake, and she didn’t deserve it. 

So he clenched his jaw when he felt her stirring. Edging closer. Her legs were exposed and propped on the table in front of them, sleek and bare and he looked away. He didn’t want to see the divots of her neck and throat peeking from the opening of the robe, her veins pumping blood in her wrists. 

Tony’s physical attraction was nothing - a tiptoe through the goddamn tulips - compared to the destruction of logic happening inside of his head. 

Tony felt a bizarre sickness wash over him whenever he thought of her book. What the fuck was that feeling again? Oh, right. _Jealousy._ Tactless, wreckless, senseless possession. Those words did not belong to him whatsoever; millions of others had the ability to read those words. And he hated it. As if access to her own mind was a privilege. Did any of those fucking simpletons realize how special she was? 

Would the words she wrote for him make him feel the same? But they wouldn’t be for _him_ , they were for everyone else. Everyone _but_ him. All of these feelings were wrong and foreign to Tony, and they crowded his waking state. Unsure of how to utilize them. 

This was _beyond_ inconvenient. It was unfortunate. He felt something for Josephine, and she was fucking naked beneath that robe, and she wanted to open it, and he was terrified she would. Terrified of how much he wanted her to. 

He parted his lips with his tongue, entirely unaware of whatever was on the television. Her body was positioned towards his. Her fingers traced over the cord that cinched the robe together. 

“Are you cold?” she whispered. 

Of course he was cold; he was sitting in wet boxers, central air circulating. 

“Are _you?”_

Tony wasn’t even fidgeting. He was _paralyzed._

“A little,” she said, and Tony recognized that _tone._ It sounded very tempting coming from her. She kept toying with the cord of the robe, like she was daring him to grab it. 

“Blanket? Clothes? Fireplace? A little unorthodox this time of year, but -“

“Whatever you think will work best,” she said evenly. And her leg touched his. 

This was it. This would be the moment he’d usually swoop in, grabbing her face, pulling her into a kiss. Opening the robe with a deft hand, granting access to whatever laid beneath. This was a scenario Tony nearly invented himself, patented and mapped out in his own code. 

He swallowed. He couldn’t do it, she would have to do it. 

“I think you know what’s best,” he said, his voice sort of low and stuck in his throat. What was meant to sound _foreboding_ to her probably sounded sultry. 

“I know what I _want_ ,” she emphasized softly, turning her body towards him even more. 

“You’re ambitious,” Tony whispered, pins and needles pricking his hands. “Get it.”

Josephine stood on her knees, sat back on her heels, and pulled the cord of the robe, opening it in front of Tony. It pooled around her hips, falling off of her thighs, and Tony felt like now there was shrapnel in his _lungs_ as he tried to steady his own useless breathing. Yeah, absolutely fucking beautiful, he thought. Of course. Imperfectly _perfect_. Soft, supple, marked and freckled, waiting for him to put his undeserving hands on it, his cursed and useless mouth over. 

“Jesus,” he murmured, and he closed his eyes, her body burning on the backs of their lids. “Is this, uh, are you entirely sure you actually want this to happen?”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “I do.”

 _You’re going to hate me_ , he said in his mind as he turned towards her, his hands resting in the space between her hips and rib cage. She exhaled, almost a moan but not quite as he brought himself to his own knees, encouraging her to lie on her back. The white fabric of the robe engulfing her naked body was an unkind symbol of purity, and Tony hated that his mind wasn’t letting him feel his usual sense of entitlement. That feeling was absent; he felt unworthy. 

He could make her feel good. He could say everything he felt without saying it, write it on her warm skin with his tongue. There was absolutely fucking nothing suave about Tony in the present moment; maybe she’d pick up on that. 

She whimpered as he caged her body with his, straddling her frame as he lifted his slightly damp shirt over his head. God, he felt _weird_ , he felt _emotional_ almost as he tilted her chin, positioning it so their eyes met. 

“I’m going to kiss you,” he whispered, his mouth already very close to hers. He could at least _sound_ like himself, if he tried. Mask his doubt and make it look teasing. 

Her lips were languid and swollen as she brushed them over his without actually kissing him. 

“I want you to. I want you to do a lot -“

His lips crashed into hers, and he couldn’t help it. He moaned against her, his tongue desperately seeking hers. He felt found somehow as her hands cupped his face, raking through his stubble and inching into his hair. His hands were ready to roam; they cupped her breasts, his thumbs tracing gently over her nipples. He wanted to touch her hair; he held her face and they breathed each other in. Tony could do nothing but kiss her until the sun rose, he was certain of it. Tony didn’t really like kissing. Okay, he liked it, but kissing was just a segue into fucking, the real goal. The idea that he might be able to part her legs and be _inside_ of her felt like some added bonus he’d cheated his way into. 

He was very aware of her hips rolling against him, seeking friction. Yeah, _same_ , babe, he thought, his cock already painfully hard again. She must have noticed, too; her fingers trailed down from his face to his shoulders, down his arms; Tony moaned again _involuntarily_ when their pads reached his sides, slipping between their bodies into the band of his boxers. She tugged on them and he, in a dreamlike state, moved, letting her pull them down, not really breaking away from her lips as they eventually left his ankles. She took him, heavy in her palm, and he was actually grateful he’d come in his fucking shorts like a goddamn teenager. She pumped him against her belly, and he exhaled sharply into her. 

“Is this okay?” she asked, finally displaying some sort of bashfulness. 

“Uh, this is very okay. Are you okay?” he said in response, and he felt _concern_. His voice was soft and caring and he didn’t recognize it. 

“I’m really good,” she said breathlessly, now squeezing the tip of his cock in her grip and he buried himself in the crook of her neck for a moment, trying to get a fucking hold of himself. 

“I mean, you _could_ be better,” he said, feeling a little more like the Tony he knew, fully aware of his capabilities. He could at least give her something. 

He inched down and pressed his lips to her chest, her breasts, her stomach. Every part of her seemed so real, and his mouth found her hip bones, her thighs. She was panting and writhing and he wished he could bottle this feeling, regenerate it. Save it for a rainy day. Take it like a pill. Supplement himself with her. He couldn’t wait longer; he let his tongue part her center, and he moaned with her. She tasted _good;_ it had been a while for Tony, and he let his tongue slip up, finding her clit. He let his hands rest gently on her abdomen, sort of anchoring her to the sofa as he did something he knew he was skilled at, but this time it was different. This wasn’t performative; he took care to follow her cues and nip, suck, flick his tongue and respond to her whimpers. Normally Tony felt such a surge of power between a woman’s legs, but this was Josephine. This wasn’t power, it was a _privilege._ Her pleasure was his, and he kissed her there, his tongue drawing a climax from her, and his chest swelled with emotion and - was that _gratitude_? He closed his eyes and hummed into her warmth as she cried his name softly, threading her fingers through his hair; he moved with her, she moved with him. He couldn’t help himself; his fingers dug into her waist as her body went rigid, the promise of an orgasm building beneath him. 

“Tony,” she breathed, and she tensed, gripping him with all that she had, and held her, kept his mouth on her until she collapsed. 

He brought himself upright, crawling over her until they were at face level again. 

“Well, I think my job is done here,” he joked, and she cried out a little breathless laugh. 

“No, I need you,” she said, swatting his chest. “Please.”

Yeah, Tony wasn’t ever one to deny _begging._

The world was both very explosive and still all at once as Tony gripped himself in his hand, his eyes fixed very carefully on Josephine. 

“I need you, too,” he said gruffly. “Just, ya know, don’t _tell_ anyone I said that.”

She laughed again, this time unable to open her eyes, and her amused look broke into desperation as he pressed into her gently. 

Why was this so different? Why did this feel very new and terrifying? Tony was _enkindled_ by this - this entire thing - there didn’t have to be snark or method acting or games to reach this point; Josephine was somehow both tranquilizing _and_ pacific. He was home when he pushed into her again, her lungs sharply filling with air. He saw stars when he sunk his cock into her warmth completely, when he felt her softness against his stomach and chest as he leaned into her and began to move. One of his hands splayed over the back of her thigh, gently prying her apart. 

_Please don’t hate me tomorrow_ , he begged her silently, reveling in her tight heat, his movements slowly beginning to pick up pace. 

“Jesus, you feel incredible,” he said hoarsely, letting her pull him down by the neck into a messy kiss. 

Her lips were soft and plump and Tony couldn’t remember the last time he remembered a kiss quite like this, one that made his head buzz. She was wet and eager beneath him and she really ought to stop, or he wouldn’t last, wouldn’t work up to the reputation she likely knew of. 

_Don’t regret this, please_ , he shouted in his head, and he moaned into her mouth, very aware of his heart thrumming beneath his chest. Functioning. Thriving. In so many ways. 

She dragged kisses over his neck and arched her back into him, the snap of her hips making Tony’s lower half coil with heat. 

He realized this was ending; he didn’t feel like he’d had enough. There were still her breasts to explore, her mouth, her eyes - christ, did he actually _want_ that? She was whimpering now, begging him softly, summery breath pooling in the books of his ear. 

“I’m going to come again,” she warned him. 

This time he could watch, he realized. He had to. He pushed himself up with his hands beside her head. 

“Stay with me, Jo,” he implored her, “look at me.”

Her eyelids fluttered open, and he knew she was shy and unsure but she was too lost to disobey him; she met his eyes until she couldn’t anymore, and Tony pressed his forehead against hers as she convulsed around his cock. 

She was beautiful and that was it; he thrusted a few more times before a growl was torn from his throat. It nearly fucking killed him to pull away from her, but he did, and he pumped himself and erupted, letting his come pool onto her belly, the patch of hair between her legs. In a haze, she pulled him by the shoulders back on top of her, drawing him into an embrace, and they stayed that way. 

“You called me Jo,” Josephine whispered faintly after a minute, or an hour. Tony had no concept of time. 

“If that’s your only complaint, I’d say that’s a win,” he replied, speaking into her neck. 

He felt her chuckle, and goddamn goosebumps spread over his back as she traced her fingers over his shoulder blades. 

“I liked it.”

* * *

The next week was a fucking blur that Tony didn’t want to emerge from. 

He’d led her into the shower later that night, and he fucked her again. Seeing her fully in the soft light, taking her to bed, _his_ bed. And he was not just happy to see her there the next morning, but relieved. 

She kept dragging him outdoors, making his heart work in ways he hadn’t bothered with. In so many ways. He’d successfully flipped his first pancake, stood side by side at the kitchen sink and did the dishes. Josephine spent hours in front of her laptop, and he’d mess with his own work in the basement, and it was a quiet and even work. Absent of mania and sleepless night; he was not only achieving REM but remembering dreams. 

Tony didn’t want to _jinx_ it, or anything, but things felt eerily perfect, and he hated it, because it wasn’t going to last. 

“Man, why do you have to talk about it like it’s a _bad_ thing?” Rhodey had asked over the phone. Tony had walked to the end of the dock and word-vomited too many things into his end of the phone, and he knew Rhodey was right. 

“This can be a good thing,” his friend had said. “Just let it be.”

But Tony was right; it was the end of the fourth week and Josephine stood in the entrance of the kitchen, fully dressed for the first time in a week and a half, hands in her pockets and clearly anxious. Tony knew anxious like the back of his hand, and it was waiting for him in the form of Josephine. 

“Are we wearing pants now? Are you trying to tell me something?” he said lightly, tossing the gauntlet he’d been tinkering on aside.

She shrugged, leaning against the threshold. “I leave today.”

Of course she had to leave, he said to himself. He had no concept of time because of something good for him for the first time in fucking decades and the realization felt like a blow to the stomach. 

“Wow. Uh, that’s now? Already?” He dragged the gauntlet back over towards him, pretending to adjust something. Fidgeting. 

“Yeah, I know. Flew by,” she sighed. “Tony, I’m not going to write the piece.”

“Wait, _what?_ ” he said quickly, his head snapping up. “No, no, no, _no_ ,” Tony said, his voice rising, and he stood abruptly, stumbling a little from the stool he’d been sitting in. 

Josephine’s brow furrowed, and she cocked her head. “Why is that so shocking? Tony, we’ve been sleeping together, I have feelings -“

“And _this_ is what I was worried about,” Tony said firmly, stalking around the counter and standing in front of her. “This is huge for you -“

“I’m working on my next book,” Josephine told him matter of factly, her look of confusion turning severe. “I have other projects and I still have my job.”

“No, no, no, Josephine. You are going to regret this,” he enunciated, panic rising in his chest. “You’re going to resent me down the road if you don’t take the opportunity -“

“Why would I _resent_ you?” she asked incredulously, and Tony felt her back away a little. In every way. “Do you think it’s appropriate to move forward with it, even though -“

“This might seem like a good idea now,” Tony said, this time quietly, and his chest was tight. His vision was blurred and he couldn’t breathe properly but he focused on Josephine. “But Jo; you are going to regret this. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in six months, but if you set aside your opportunities for me -“

“Why, because you’ll be done with me by then?” she hissed, and she really was backing away. Towards the door. 

“That’s not what I meant -“

“Because yeah, of _course_ ,” she said, and Tony felt the ground beneath him sinking when tears started to swim in her eyes. “It’s not like anyone would ever _know_ about us -“ 

“Jo, that’s not what I mean,” Tony cut it, and she truly began to cry when he gripped one of her arms. She wouldn’t look at him. “That’s not what I meant; I’m worried that if you set aside work -“

“What I’ve seen from you,” she began, and she briefly looked at him. She was angry. “I don’t want to share that. I can’t.”

It was the best thing Tony could have asked for, coming from her. _This_ was intimacy, this was the real deal. Tony felt the tick in his brain, cataloguing all the reasons why it didn’t make sense. This was somehow illogical. Too good to be true. Of course she’d hate him for this. He couldn’t let that happen. 

“I think you need to think about it,” he whispered. 

“I have a lot to think about,” she muttered, and she shook his grip away. “I have to leave.”

“Actually, you don’t,” Tony said, “this was an entirely imaginary timeline.”

“And just keep doing nothing?”

“Is this nothing?” he said, a look of mock-confusion washing over his face. “‘Cus, uh, this feels like the most something I’ve done in a _long_ time.”

Tony wasn’t really _trying_ \- he didn’t have the ability to slow down and process - but whatever he’d just said made Josephine stop. She pressed her lips together and searched his face. 

“I can’t write it, Tony. I’m sorry.”

Oh, if only she knew. How she’d feel outshined by him, depressed and cast into the shadows by Tony fucking Stark, and her expression wouldn’t be what it is now. Why did the real world have to show up and fuck everything up? 

“Think about it, Jo. Please.”

“I have,” she said tersely, and she reached into her pocket, she began to fumble with her phone and keys and Tony felt everything sort of slip away. “I’ll talk to you later.”

And Tony Stark, even with the mouth he had, was speechless as she slowly walked out the door. 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

“Don’t you look _fancy_.”

Jo shrinks into herself, feeling exposed and stupid in front of such an old friend. She’s cut her hair, freeing herself from the dead ends, releasing a length that didn’t serve her any longer. Her brown hair sits above her shoulders. She watched some YouTube tutorials on beach waves, invests in some curling wand. She’s discovered that, by blow drying and using _product,_ she doesn’t have to wash her hair as often. She bought some gimmicky but effective whitening strips for her teeth online, incapable of hiding the snaggletooth but gives them some pearly sheen instead to distract. She can now blot on some red lipstick and appear to be a functional, successful adult. She sleeps too much and isn’t eating enough and misses Tony Stark’s bed, which sounds pretty delusional, even when she says it to herself. So, she doesn’t. 

_You look fantastic,_ people have been saying. Stupid, vapid, ignorant. Jo feels terrible. 

_Thanks, it’s the heartache,_ she wants to say. She prefers the softness she’d possessed upstate. Not this shell. Her eyes dart over to the brand new iPhone from her peripheral. 

Samantha gives Jo a pointed look, and Jo searches and finds the lock button on the side of her phone that’s sitting between them and presses it. There’s an audible click, and Samantha smiles sardonically. 

“Better?” Jo asks, eyebrows high on her forehead. The noise in the bar is soft and subdued, and both women turn to thank their waiter when he deposits two pint glasses in front of them. 

“First, cheers,” Samantha says, holding her glass in front of Josephine. “Congratulations on a second book. That was fast. Is eight weeks a record?”

Jo’s beer is cold in her hand and she grips it firmly, letting it clink against her friends. Jo hasn’t let herself drink since returning to the city out of principal; she wouldn’t let it become a habit. Her belly feels warm as she indulges. 

“No,” Jo replies, placing the glass back down. “It was ten, including editing and publishing.”

“Ten fucking weeks,” Samantha remarks, shaking her head a little. “And you’re not even going to thank him.” Jo groans, allowing herself another sip. She doesn’t verbally respond but glances at the blank screen. Again. “The ball is in your court, Josephine!”

“I just thought he’d try again once he heard about the book,” Jo explains hurriedly. 

“No.” Samantha sets her own glass down and folds her hands in front of her, fixing a look at her friend. “No man, no one _period_ , is going to keep trying after being ghosted like that. Let me listen to that last voicemail again.”

“Come on,” Josephine protests, and both she and Samantha reach for the phone at the same time. Samantha wriggles it from Jo’s weak grip, unlocking it with busy fingers: she knows the passcode. Jo watches unwillingly as Samantha presses the phone icon; the voice message was retrieved, and Samantha held the device on speaker, positioning it between them. They’ve both heard Tony’s voice too many times to count. Maybe it’s still a novelty to Samantha. It still pains Jo to listen. 

“ _Uh, it’s me, no introduction necessary_ …” Tony’s voice is slow and facetious, self-loathing in its shame. _“I am not exactly happy about stalker status here, considering it’s pretty obvious you don’t want to talk. But, uh, if you change your mind, I’m back in the city. This loft is pretty big; you wouldn’t have to stand too close to me if you wanted to swing by. I, uh, I hope you’re good. Later.”_

“I don’t get it!” Samantha locks the phone and discards it back onto the bar. “It’s Tony Stark, you guys clearly are like, in _love,_ or something -“

“Okay, _that’s_ a little dramatic,” Jo interrupts dryly. “It was a fling.”

“That inspired a novella!”

“It wouldn’t have worked out,” Jo says, and there’s a finality in her tone. Samantha’s eyes are downcast and she deflates a bit, not wanting to needle any further for now. She shrugs. “He dates models and stuff,” Jo flicks a small hole fraying at the knee of her jeans, avoiding. 

“Guess we’ll never know,” Samantha says with a huff, disappointed. “I bet he’s read the interview.”

Three days ago, the New York Times granted Josephine a brief interview that took up a single page, including the photo of her most recent book sleeve. Of course the journalist asked about the Tony editorial. 

Matt Sykes: You spent some significant time with Mr. Stark upstate. 

_(He had asked it, feigning some inquisitive look of pensiveness Jo despised. How insincere.)_

Josephine Bayer: I did. 

_(She had nodded in response, bracing for the rest of it. Tony’s PR team had let her keep the advance, let her break the contract. Tony likely had something to do with how cut and dry it was. They had only asked her to make a statement as to why she decided not to write it._

_“Be candid,” they’d suggested, leaning into her character. Josephine had told them the editorial wouldn’t fit into her resume the way she had wanted to, that she hadn’t felt like the right fit._

_“He was a perfect gentleman,” she’d insisted to them; they were nervous. “I just don’t think I’d do him justice.”_

_Since the papers stopped writing about him, they didn’t push. Tony seemed to sink into temporary stillness within the press.)_

MS: What made you bow out of the editorial? You clearly possess the ability. What was it about your time with Mr. Stark that made you decide to decline?

_(I wanted to focus on my book, she could have said. I didn’t feel prepared; personal editorials are unfamiliar to me. There were a plethora of explanations that would have been easily classified as honest, candid. Josephine wasn’t prepared for what she gave them.)_

JB: Perhaps it’s just based on personal morals, but summing up my time with [Mr. Stark] into written word, for the world to share felt a bit like breaching trust.

_(The interview nearly sprung forward at this, and dread had washed over Josephine.)_

MS: Who’s trust?

_(Josephine had closed her eyes, waving away an invisible assumption. She downplayed it, made the interviewer feel preposterous.)_

JB: No one in particular. But [Tony Stark] is a human being and deserves normalcy. He became my friend. It would have been a biased piece. 

MS: Intimacy. Mr. Stark’s reputation isn’t a secret. Did that affect your decision at all?

_(Yes, she screamed in her head.)_

JB: Not at all. 

“He’s going to read it,” Samantha states again, her beer almost gone already. Josephine brushes the interview away from her mind. 

“I’m sure he will,” she replies brusquely. She drains her own glass, avoiding the mix of snow and rain beyond the floor length window beside them, reliving summer, filling her body with warmth. 

Josephine and Samantha share a couple of more drinks in Brooklyn, approximately twelve-something miles from Manhattan. Tony Stark is wearing another Italian sweater, thin and soft, not the itchy wool you find in a thrift store, reeking of moth balls. He drags his fingers over it, over his heart, the son of a bitch. What a failure, that vital organ turned out to be. Not just in terms of literal functionality but goddamn feeling. What a traitor. Tony usually leans into drinking, pulling all-nighters, turning heartache and disappointment into brilliance, into an invention. This time around Tony really is too tired, too preoccupied with the what-if’s. He’s a little thinner from eating less and he’s lethargic. He’s so goddamn tired. 

He doesn’t text or call, so he lets himself do a quick Google search. Obsessed? Tony? Never. Heartbroken? Sure. He lets himself perform this search maybe once a week, and nothing new pops up. Old pictures from a few interviews, nothing new. Tonight is different. 

Tony’s useless, treacherous heart stalls a bit when he sees the addition. The Times. He scrolls and he reads in a panic, like he can’t consume the information quickly enough. He’s thinner from not eating because he hasn’t had a fucking appetite and all of a sudden he’s ravenous and she is sustenance. There’s a new picture; the backdrop is dark and the form-fitting sports coat is sleek and chic and very suiting, despite the fact that it doesn’t seem like her. She’s playing dress up. Her mouth is closed and her smile is tight and the tooth is concealed. His eyes flick over the words as he absorbs them. 

It sort of feels like a heart attack when he sees his name in its formal glory, _Mr. Stark_ . Josephine’s official statement is brief and terse and professional and it is absolutely fucking everything Tony has ever wanted. It’s a sliver of hope in an empty, enormous loft. Tony’s a dog and he wishes he could be more confined, like he belongs in a goddamn crate meant to promote security. It’s too big here alone and if Josephine was stretched out next to him, feet propped in his lap, the walls may not feel _quite_ so far away. _He deserves normalcy_ , she’d said. Is Josephine normal? No, not one fucking bit, but maybe by the world’s standards. _He’s my friend_ , she’d insisted. Friends text back. 

All Tony had wanted was something for himself, not the entire goddamn world (hadn’t he given enough?) and she wasn’t going to give it to them. Why hadn’t he said, “Oh, thank you, you’re a fucking gem,” when she’d insisted she wouldn’t expose their...whatever it was to the world? Because most people pale next to me, he’d said to himself. It wasn’t conceited, it was true. He didn’t want to diminish her gleam, steal her well-earned spotlight. He _should_ have just trusted her. 

Tony laboriously presses himself from the sofa and steps towards the window, New York City staring back at him through little red and yellow lights. Fourteen million, six hundred and five outcomes and Tony had to pick the one where he had to keep living, his heart had to keep beating. Eight point thirty nine million people in New York, and all he wanted was one person staring back at him. He wants the minute details for them, but he still wishes the entire world knew he was in love. He’s never felt so willing to be honest. 

Tony fishes for the phone in his pocket, unlocks it. Goes back and rereads; she’s written a new book. That fast, huh? Impressed, proud, he’s happy for something to do, stomach knitting with nerves as he finds a digital copy. Falling onto the sofa again, he gets comfortable. 

_Don’t judge me too harshly,_ he imagines her saying from what could be her side of the sofa, having the indecency to _blush_. Maybe she’d be in sweats, given the weather, given the hour. A thin little shirt, just enough to excite him while still alluding to some semblance of modesty. Holding her words in his palm, a cruel voice in his head says they’ve got nothing in common. She’s younger and awkward in interviews, if not professional to the point of overkill. She wants goddamn remakes of Pride and Prejudice, romance, home cooked meals and physical exertion. Tony is a premade skeptic of love and would rather be distracted than evoked. Or, that’s what he always thought. Tony deserves normalcy and he indulges in the furthest thing from that, returning to her new work. He’s only a few paragraphs deep when he realizes the protagonist is standing in front of a lake.

It’s only a couple of hours later - nearly one o’clock in the morning - when her name pops up on his screen. 

_I miss you. I’m busy, but I miss you._

Tony doesn’t respond, he’s not sure if she wants him to. Instead, he opens up his calendar. An empty schedule. 

Tony’s nearly finished the book just before four o’clock in the morning and a dusky haze permeates the darkness outside. He guesses it would be categorized as a love story, which is so trite and limiting because it’s so much more than that. Tony’s not sure why something so perfect and beautiful could ever be critiqued or even broken down and analyzed, but he is very fucking sure that Josephine started that book in his lake house and somehow managed to complete it sometime after. 

Intimacy, normalcy, all of that stuff? Tony wants it. He deserves it, she said so himself. But, he’s Tony fucking Stark, after all. He can end things - or begin them, rather - with a bang. 

Approximately twelve something miles away, Josephine is awake unwillingly and she replays the last voicemail from Tony. It isn’t her second or seventh time hearing it since midnight. She considers pressing the call button until she remembers the hour. If Tony’s awake, he’s near sleep. She won’t rob him of something he desperately needs. She shuts her eyes and wonders what the lake looks like in winter. 

-

Josephine wrings her hands together beneath the table, holding them against the thick black tablecloth draped over it. Josephine spent an hour selecting the proper shoes to match the goddamn dress she’d bought for the book release, completely forgetting she’d be partially hidden. What nerves will do to a person. 

This is Josephine’s first press release; the first book wasn’t supposed to be successful - _Josephine_ was not supposed to be successful. She counted seven reporters in the audience, all with large cameras or cellphones, lanyards around their necks. Every single last chair was full, and as her editor and publisher sat on either side, she drew in a steadying breath. This isn’t huge, but it’s more than she had ever imagined. 

It’s the same as every interview, anything of significance like this; it sweeps by like a dream, like she’s a goldfish staring out of the bowl, and questions stream past her and she answers in a daze and then suddenly remembers where she is. A crowded bookstore with New York fucking City very much alive on the sidewalk beyond the windows, Christmas lights already strung up and the shopkeeper has hung up sleigh bells on the door and they ring with that proverbial nostalgia every time someone slinks in, smiling apologetically as they creep in to join a little late. The book is ‘not necessarily happier than her first,’ but there is a ‘defined promise to it. It uplifts. It leaves the reader with hope, for lack of a better word,’ as someone puts it, and Josephine tries to explain why without saying Tony’s name. She almost lets his name spill out of her mouth too many times, the faint smell of balsam and fir trees from the sweet little garlands hanging on random bookshelves waft round the room and she wonders how _extra_ Tony would be during the holidays or if he curses them like the star of a bad Hallmark movie and then someone else says his name for her. 

A fog is lifted and she returns to herself a bit. Tony’s name was spoken aloud and she didn’t have to do it herself. 

“Considering the timing, did your experience with Billionaire Avenger Tony Stark last summer inspire the new book?”

The room is poised and waiting for Josephine’s reply. What a clever journalist, she thinks. She has to say something quickly or she’ll be given away. “It’s hard to say,” she lies, uttering the words like a curious question climbing a little summit of bullshit on the end. “I hadn’t left the city in so long and it was very peaceful there. Tony is surprisingly easy to be around.”

“What _would_ you say inspired it?” the journalist clarifies. What a buzzard. 

Tony did. Josephine has wanted to crawl out of her skin since puberty and she has the most wicked imposter complex and Tony made her feel like a real human. Tony made her feel brilliant in the most casual way. “Nothing,” Josephine says, very aware that her voice falters a bit. Her editor adjusts in her seat awkwardly. “In particular.”

From somewhere in the back, tucked away and poorly-disguised in sunglasses and the dark blue hood of a sweatshirt, Tony huffs out a barely-audible laugh. That’s their inside joke and if he needed an invitation, that was it. Josephine doesn’t know he’s there but she’s about to. 

“Uh, yeah, sorry. Excuse me.” 

Josephine almost doesn’t want to look because she knows it’s Tony speaking before she sees him, pulling a ridiculous hood from his head to pool at the base of his neck and falling onto his shoulders - he’s wearing jeans a _hoodie_ and those dark sunglasses and he walks towards the collection of reporters, probably to make it more difficult to take photos - if they’re too close it looks _weird_ -and he shoves his hands into his pockets and he stands wide, giving Josephine and her little panel an unassuming look of thoughtfulness as he takes the glasses off. 

“Sorry to interrupt, but uh, for my _own_ reporting purposes, could you, like, elaborate on that last question a bit?”

He looks too thin, Josephine thinks. He looks like hasn’t been sleeping, and she’s suddenly very eager to drag him away, to get him to slip into pyjamas and order takeout and not do anything. She’s overwhelmed with how badly she misses him - she’s been acutely aware that she was - _is_ \- in love with Tony, but she’s buried it. Josephine’s editor rests a hand over hers and Josephine grasps it, nodding, not looking at her, unable to stop looking at Tony. It’s all being washed away at present moment, and before she can speak, face resting into a relieved smile, he opens his mouth to say more. 

“No comment? Not to be totally insane, or whatever, but uh, I wanted you to write the editorial because I want you to succeed because you’re special, okay? You earned this.” He parts the sea of murmuring people, of the curious and almost concerned souls whose eyes are shifting between her and Tony. “Everyone I know has powers they didn’t ask for and it makes them extraordinary, but you _honed_ whatever you have, and you changed me with it. You gave me permission to just _exist._ And I was, uh, just hoping you’d tell me that after doing nothing like that, you’d maybe want to do everything else. Anything else. With me, obviously.” The room chuckles, ripples of tongue clicking and hums of sweet approval and he doesn’t seem to be paying attention to them, warm, ragged eyes large and only for Jo. 

Jo is faintly aware that she is crying; she never liked crying in public. She vehemently avoided it and tears are searing her eyes and her throat is on fire with a held-in sob. She becomes conscious of the fact that if she speaks, she can alleviate that fire. “Okay,” she chokes out, beginning to laugh at how simple her response is to something so profound. She’s nodding profusely and Tony’s smiling in relief and she smiles back. 

“Okay?” he repeats back, a little loudly over the audience, eyebrows high on his head and he’s smirking and Jo wants to kiss him. They’re both desperately in need of sleep and she’s ready to let this become her life. She’s seen Tony do nothing and just be and she’s anxious to see him work and live and succeed and fail and she wants to exist with him there. “Uh, cool. Call me when this is all over,” he suggests, gesturing at the panel. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

Josephine is laughing _and_ crying and she presses her lips together as Tony makes his way back towards the front of the book shop. “Pretend I’m not here,” he shouts, pulling a book from the shelf at random.

The room is buzzing with sound and her editor is answering a question, but Josephine isn’t listening. She’s ready to go home. 

-

She arrives; Tony was beginning to think what happened upstate was a fucking mirage, for how distant it feels. He thinks of the word ‘fleeting’ but that’s not right, it was perpetual, _abiding_. Josephine lives in his bones and all it took was a little bit of Stark drama to make her realize he meant it. Tony has been hiding for six months and he’s never afraid of publicity or speaking out but god, that was nothing but pure adrenaline and guts and absolute stupidity and she’s coming over, she’s on her way. 

She steps out of the elevator and she’s fucking _blushing,_ tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and averting her eyes and her smile is big - like, _really_ big - and Tony takes her by the elbows. 

“Sorry for the PDA back there,” he says, voice sort of husky and low and he feels like he’s barely spoken aloud since seeing her. “I read the book, I read the interview -“

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, and Tony actually feels his heart crack a bit because she’s crying, and that senseless joy from the press release is absent and he grips her elbows a little more tightly. “You have to understand, Tony. I am very ordinary and nothing about you is; I didn’t think I’d fit into your life and I didn’t want to get hurt.”

“Oh, trust me,” he shushes, “you fit. Like a fucking glove. I’m an inventor, anyways,” and Tony sort of feels like himself when she smiles demurely through her tears, “I can make anything fit. But you make it easy. Why don’t you stay?”

“Okay,” she says; the author, the woman capable of stringing words together that makes Tony rethink everything has been speechless today and it makes him a little proud, if he’s being honest. 

She’s a little more shy this time around; the Penthouse is more vast and exposing compared to the lake house. Last time felt a little more reckless and carefree for her, maybe, definitely not Tony, but there’s more of an understanding of a vulnerable, raw beginning this time. Tony urges her to open, to bloom as she covers herself from his eyes once she’s naked beneath an unbelievably soft throw blanket on the sofa. He nudges her apart with kisses so delicate, Tony didn’t know he was capable of it. He gets to taste her all over again, grateful for her hands in his hair, grateful for the way she tastes like honey and pink salt. There’s a little bit more humbleness to his movements as he sinks into her for the first time in months; once Tony’s done, he’s done. Tony’s never _missed_ this from a singular person before. She’s back and she whimpers his name with so much conviction, so much honesty that he wants to make her do it over and over again. So, he does, obviously. Night is crisp and clear again in New York City, it’s like his eyes have adjusted to the world again. His mind is sharp and his heart - the inexorable thing it is, despite its flaws - beats steadily. Josephine presses a hand to his chest. 

“Functioning,” Tony points out as he draws his chin to his chest, shrugging as he thinks of the vital organ, pumping blood and meaning he can get behind. “Who would have thought?”

“I never doubted it,” Josephine says, a little distantly, like she’s recalling a good dream. Tony even thinks he detects reverence. “Not for a minute.”


End file.
